


Fall-out

by jadztone



Series: Sherlock Nanowrimo [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, finishes up mid-TEH, multiple time jumps, starts out mid-Baskerville, then goes post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 04:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: A flirtatious Greg agrees to do a favor for Mycroft.  Just as things start to heat up, the Great Game happens.  Turns out that there is more fallout from the Fall than what we've seen.





	1. The Pale Band

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of stories I wrote for Nanowrimo and posted on my tumbler page, sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com. I was doing a story a day, generally leaving them open-ended if I wanted to add on to the story later in the month. The ones that I did add on to will be posted on AO3 as multiple chapters. They will all be posted as complete, with no expectation that I will ever revisit them. I haven't changed them from the way they were posted on tumblr, they have their issues, but I like to think of them as diamonds in the rough. The stories contain multiple crossovers with other fandoms, and multiple ships.

Greg looked at the screen, feigning interest in the football match being played.  In reality he was unable to get his mind off the final scene that had played out the last day of their holiday.  It had been a last ditch effort to repair his marriage, getting away from all the things that strained it.  But it hadn’t worked.  She kept saying she wanted to be with him, and then she kept running off with other men. She’d even slipped off with someone while they were at the beach.  The ensuing screaming match had probably been unpleasant for the other hotel guests.  In the end, he’d had enough.  He stopped yelling, took off his ring and tossed it on the bed, then walked out.  He didn’t even bother to pack his clothes, just grabbed his wallet, mobile and passport and went to the airport.  He hadn’t brought much anyway, hoping they would be naked the whole time.  

The flight back had been depressing, the tan line from his ring was a stark reminder that he couldn’t escape seeing every time he looked down at his hands.  As soon as he got back to the flat, he’d thrown as many of his clothes in a trunk as he could fit and found a hotel he could stay at for a few days while he looked for someplace else to live.  Then he came straight to the pub to drown his sorrows.

The bartender appeared in front of him.  “No, I’m good for now, mate.”  The man handed him a telephone.  Greg stared at it, then took the handset.  “Hello?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Mycroft Holmes.  There is a limousine waiting outside, if you wouldn’t mind terribly getting into it.”

“Er, I guess.  Why didn’t you just call my mobile?  Showing off?”

“It’s one of my little pleasures.”

“Ah.  I’m partial to raindrops on roses.”

“Really, I would have thought it’d be brown paper packages tied up with string.”

“Nah, that’s bomb disposal.  Not my division.”  Greg heard what sounded like an attempt not to laugh.  Had he actually amused Mycroft?

Mycroft cleared his throat.  “Well, let’s give the bartender back his telephone and I will see you shortly.”

“Cheers.”  Greg hung up the phone and sat staring at it a moment.  Had he just flirted with Sherlock’s brother?  It had been a long time since he’d felt any interest in a man. Not since before he’d met his wife. Now that he recalled, his taste in men did run to those who were sharp and intellectual.  Although maybe not as dour as Mycroft.  Stifling his thoughts, Greg paid his tab and went out to find the limousine.  

Greg had only been to Mycroft’s office a couple of times before.  It was always a pain in the ass with security. Even a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard got the full treatment.  When he was finally through, he made his way up to Mycroft’s office.  

When he was shown in, he saw Mycroft sitting at his desk, writing something. Mycroft was probably the most solitary person he’d ever met.  Anytime Greg saw him at his office, he was alone, his assistant practically dematerializing as soon as Greg entered the inner sanctum.  Mycroft never seemed to be around a lot of people, except when he was at the Diogenes Club, and even there everyone was silent.  Did he really need that much of a buffer between himself and people of inferior intellect?  

Greg went up to the chair that was placed on the other side of the desk from Mycroft.  But instead of sitting in it, he put his hands on the back and leaned against it. Mycroft looked up from his writing. He examined Greg’s face and remarked, “I see you are just back from holiday, did you have a good time?”  Then Mycroft’s eyes flicked down to Greg’s hands. “Oh.  You didn’t.  My condolences.”  

Greg straightened up and shoved his hands in his pocket.  “So why am I here?”

Mycroft’s eyes went from Greg’s face to the chair and then back again. Greg decided that if he asked him to sit down, he’d tell Mycroft to piss off and leave.  Mycroft must have concluded that Greg was in no mood to sit. He stood up and came around the desk and perched on the edge.  “My brother and Doctor Watson are in Dartmoor at the moment on a case.”  Mycroft’s eyebrows raised.  “Two cases, actually.  How very efficient of him.  I am hoping that you would be willing to go to Dartmoor and check up on him.”

Greg gave him an incredulous look.  “What would I do that for?”

“Yesterday the two of them broke into Baskerville using one of my security badges that Sherlock pilfered.”

Greg shook his head.  “Jesus.” He sighed.  “I just got back from holiday.”

“But do you really want to be back?  It might be good to delay going into the office.  Let your tan fade a little.”

Greg found himself contemplating it.  He was already packed and planning to stay in a hotel, why not one in Dartmoor? He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft.  “Why are you trying to talk me into it?  Why not just order me to go?”

Mycroft shrugged.  “I like to use persuasion, I find it to be more satisfying than force.”

An imp settled itself on to Greg’s shoulder, which was the only explanation for what he did next.  Greg stepped forward, until he was very close to Mycroft, and looked him right in the eyes. “I’m learning a lot tonight about what pleasures you like.  Tell me, what else do you find satisfying?”

Mycroft blinked and leaned back slightly.  In a bewildered voice, he said, “Staying fit.”

Greg raised one eyebrow.  He’d gotten to him.  Mycroft’s favorite weapon was witty repartee.  Usually he would have said something snide, but instead he’d given a sincere reply. Greg deliberately looked Mycroft up and down, then nodded appreciatively.  “Yes.  It is very satisfying.”

Mycroft looked like he’d swallowed a penny.  Greg went in for the kill.  “I’ll go to Dartmoor.  As a favor. While I’m there, I’ll think of some ways that you can repay the favor.”  He winked at Mycroft, then walked out the door.


	2. The Iceman Cometh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps around in time a bit.

Mycroft was barely able to restrain himself from standing up and walking out on Sherlock’s funeral.  He had to keep reminding himself that if Sherlock’s death had been real, he would not do such a thing.  He would keep his seat because of his grief – he did after all care for Sherlock - and because he would have considered it anathema to disrespect his brother’s memory in any way.  

But a fake funeral was a whole other ballgame.  Without the grief to temper it, the service was interminable. He was about to crawl out of his skin. It didn’t help that he could see Greg a few rows up from him, his head bowed, actually grieving for Sherlock because he actually thought Sherlock was dead.  

Ever since he realized how badly Moriarty wanted to take down Sherlock, he’d been keeping his distance from Greg.  Like anticipating an opponent’s chess moves, he’d seen that Moriarty would likely use any friends of Sherlock to get what he wanted.  Which meant that Mycroft’s burgeoning romance with Greg would complicate things too much, in too many ways.  It had been quite distressing to make this decision, his feelings for Greg had grown that much.  On the other hand, he felt some relief.  This romance went against everything he strove for in terms of remaining aloof to the world.  It was ironic - as much as he lectured Sherlock to avoid caring for people, he himself was unable to guard his heart against a grizzled detective inspector. This need to focus on Moriarty had given him the excuse he needed to put distance between himself and the object of his desire.  Although at the moment the distance between them was only a few church pews.

He was feeling a bit déjà vu.  He was staring at the back of Greg’s head, much in the way he’d done so when he spotted Greg at the production of Macbeth last spring.  He approached Greg at intermission, and they got to talking. Greg’s mother was a classically trained actress who had been in numerous Shakespeare productions, so Greg grew up with it part of his life.  Mycroft had known about Greg’s mother.  He did a background check on anyone who spends any significant time with his brother. But he hadn’t thought much about it beyond a factoid in a dossier.  At the end of intermission, Mycroft invited Greg to sit in his box, and they watched the rest of the play together.  Then they had gone out for a drink afterwards to discuss it.  Greg had been just as much flirtatious as he had been that time when Mycroft asked him to go to Dartmoor.  

Mycroft realized that reminiscing about Greg was helping him to get through the funeral without wigging out.  He decided to indulge in his memories, to make the time go by quickly.  He thought about the next time he saw Greg, who had hinted as they parted ways at MacBeth, that maybe he’d run into him at Twelfth Night. Mycroft hadn’t planned to go, he was attending a week-long summit meeting in Prague.  When he got to Prague, all he could think about was how beautiful the city was, and how much he’d love for Greg to see it - a ridiculous sentiment that he attempted to squash and was unsuccessful.  The next day he arranged to move up his flight up in order to make it to the play.

They continued to bond over their love of Shakespeare.  During one of their outings together, when Greg was sharing an anecdote about the Dartmoor trip, he confessed that one of the reasons he agreed to the favor for Mycroft was because he loved to travel to small towns. He enjoyed the simple, down to earth atmosphere.  Mycroft found himself telling Greg about the village where his parents lived.  He said that sometimes he liked to decompress by going out to the countryside.  That evening had ended with Greg kissing Mycroft, and telling him that he would like to take a weekend with him somewhere quiet and uncomplicated.  It was a glorious idea, one he knew was so dangerous in its simplicity, but he had no desire to stop it from happening.  It didn’t happen.  Moriarty’s hat trick of break-ins happened instead.   Greg had to be put on the backburner after that.  A place where Greg absolutely did not belong.    

Mycroft was broken out of his reverie by the conclusion of the service. Everyone stood up and started filing out.  It was a very small group of people, only the ones who had actually given a damn about Sherlock.  Mycroft had made sure that none of the press or curiosity seekers would get in.  The only people missing that deserved to be there were their parents.  He didn’t blame them for not coming.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned.  It was Greg. “Mycroft, could I have a word with you?”

Mycroft wanted to coldly brush him off, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Of course.”  He walked over to a corner of the sanctuary.  Everyone else filed out the door, heading to the reception room where food was waiting to take the edge off their mourning.

Greg’s expression was one of grief, and something else.  Mycroft suspected it was guilt, and his own feelings of remorse welled up.  “Mycroft, I’m more sorry than you can possibly know about your brother.  He was an exceptional man.  I can’t believe he’s gone.  I feel horrible that he was driven to take his own life.  I don’t believe he was a fake.  I never really did.  But I didn’t have proof and Donovan and Anderson were bent on proving that he was. If only we hadn’t gotten the Chief involved.  Sherlock wouldn’t have been arrested.  He wouldn’t have run.  He wouldn’t have gotten desperate.”  He closed his eyes, striving for control.  

Mycroft took a deep breath, also focusing on keeping it together.  He mustn’t tell Greg the truth, no matter how tempted.  He inwardly cursed letting himself get this far in caring for Greg.  In times like this, when he needed to be strong, when his brother’s life was at stake, he couldn’t afford to let his feelings for Greg make him weak.  Adopting an aloof tone, he said, “It means a lot that you don’t believe he was a fake. The newspaper article about Richard Brook is very convincing.”

Greg scoffed.  “It was bullshit.  I may not be a genius like you or Sherlock, but I’m still a cop.  I can still tell when I’m being fed a cock and bull story.”

Mycroft was well aware of this, which was one of the reasons he’d kept his distance.  “Greg, don’t be too hard on yourself.  Your people were just doing their jobs.  You were doing yours. Let’s get to the reception, shall we?”

Greg stepped closer.  “Mycroft…” But Mycroft wouldn’t let him finish.  He turned and walked out of the sanctuary.

He was dreading what came next.  Mingling with people mourning his brother’s death.  He supposed he should be glad there were so few people there. He wouldn’t have to endure too many expressions of condolences.  He walked in the room, and the first person he saw was Mrs. Hudson, who was crying profusely into a handkerchief.  John was sitting in a chair, a drink in one hand and a plate of food in the other, not touching any of it.  Just staring into space.  He was taking this really hard.  Mycroft had to look away from him.  It had been the toughest decision they had to make, when they were plotting Sherlock’s death – whether to let John in on it.  

“Mycroft.”  He turned and saw Molly standing there.  Her face was streaked with tears.  

He raised one eyebrow.  “I applaud your acting ability.  Any spies would think you really believe he’s dead.”

She shook her head.  “That’s not why I’m crying.  I just feel so sorry for the people who do believe he’s dead.  When Mrs. Hudson started weeping, I got choked up.  But then I saw John, and I couldn’t help it. He looks awful, Mycroft.  I tried to give him some food and drink, but he’s just in a trance.”  Fresh tears welled in her eyes.  “Did we really do the right thing in not bringing him into our confidence?  I mean, Mrs. Hudson definitely not, she’s not good with secrets.  But John wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“Molly, I told you, we have no idea how good of an actor he is.  Could he have successfully pretended grief? Then there’s the fact that he wouldn’t be able to keep away from Sherlock.  He’d want to go to him, help him with his mission.  It’s too risky!”

She exhaled in frustration.  “Well, what about Greg Lestrade?”  She glanced over at Greg, who had come in and was pouring himself a drink, his expression grim.  “He’s a detective, it’s his job to keep secrets and he wouldn’t try to go see Sherlock. He’s really torn up about Sherlock’s death.  Whenever he comes by St. Bart’s on a case, I can see how bad he feels about how everything went down.  It would make him feel so much better…”

“Molly!” Mycroft hissed.  “You need to stop this.  If you don’t contain your feelings, you’re going to put the very people you feel sorry for in danger.  If Moriarty’s people think for one moment that Sherlock isn’t dead, they will carry out his last orders – they will kill Doctor Watson and Mrs. Hudson and Gre…Detective Lestrade.  Sherlock would never forgive us.” And Mycroft would never forgive Molly if Greg were murdered.

Molly nodded, wiping away her tears.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Yes, I am.  Now, I know this is going to sound insensitive, but you should probably go talk to someone else.  We aren’t supposed to know each other that well and it would look suspicious if we were seen conversing for a long time.”

She nodded.  Patting him awkwardly on the arm, she said in a slightly louder tone, “My condolences, Mycroft.”  Then she turned and went over to Greg, who was looking over at them.

To hell with this, thought Mycroft.  He couldn’t bear being in the room with grieving people.  He couldn’t bear being in the same room with Greg.  He had to leave.  He’d put in as much time as he could to achieve the veneer of politeness.  Nobody would be surprised if he left now, he thought as he walked out the door.  He was, after all, the Iceman.  

~~~~~~~

Mycroft opened up the newspaper, trying to find any articles that weren’t about Sherlock coming back to life.  He saw one about the Waters gang walking again.  He sighed.  This was one of Greg’s cases and he knew the detective would be eaten up with frustration. Maybe he should ask Sherlock to give him a hand.  No, better not.  His brother would want to know why he cared about it, and the last thing he needed was for Sherlock to know how he felt about Greg.  How he still felt about him, even after two years of freezing him out.

About six months after the funeral, he’d gotten a call from Greg that he let go to voice mail.  “Mycroft, I…I wanted to say that it was really good to see you at the funeral.  I know things kind of fizzled out between us when I was busy with Moriarty’s break-ins.  I realized, seeing you in person, I missed you and I was hoping maybe we could pick up where we left off.  But I wanted to give you space to grieve.  If you still need more time, or if you’re not interested anymore, I’ll understand.  I guess give me a call.”  He didn’t call Greg.  There was no way he could be involved with someone while actively lying to them about someone they mutually care about.  Not long after that, Greg sent him an e-mail that had no message except for a link to a showing of Richard III.  Mycroft didn’t respond, and so he never heard from him again.

Mycroft glanced down at the article.  Now that Sherlock was back, there was no longer a secret between them. He could date Greg again.  But it would be smarter not to.  Look at how caring for him had caused so much pain for two years.  Mycroft folded the newspaper shut and sighed.  Besides, Greg might not be interested in ever seeing him again.  He would inevitably feel angry that he’d been used by Moriarty, and that Sherlock, Mycroft, and Molly had kept their plan a secret for so long.  

He stood up and went over to the window.  He found himself thinking about that kiss between him and Greg.  Their first kiss, and their last.  Greg was escorting Mycroft back to his flat, and had started up the stairs first.  A couple of steps up, he suddenly turned, and Mycroft almost ran into him.  Greg was a couple inches shorter, but now due to the steps they were the same height.  Greg put his hand behind Mycroft’s neck and gently, slowly, pulled him in for the kiss. He’d tasted like crème brulee, the dessert they shared at dinner.  It was one of Mycroft’s favorites, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to order it ever since.

Mycroft’s desk phone buzzed.  He went over and pushed the button.  His assistant announced that he had a visitor.  Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Mycroft exhaled in resignation.  He gave her the go ahead to let him in.  He went back over to the window.  He couldn’t help but think about how it was in this office that Greg had flirted with him for the first time, almost 3 years ago.  He heard the door open and then close.  He turned and saw Greg standing there, wearing an inscrutable expression.  Mycroft came forward a couple of steps and held his hand out to the chair in front of his desk.  “Would you care to sit?”  Greg raised one eyebrow, reminding him of the fact that he hadn’t cared to sit the last time he was here.  “Of course not.  How silly of me.”  Mycroft went over to the desk and sat on the edge of it.  Just like last time.  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Greg put his hands in his pockets.  “Do you?  Find it a pleasure to see me?  I spent the last two years thinking that you blamed me in part for your brother’s death, and was too disgusted to see me.  And now I find out from Sherlock that I was just a pawn in a chess game between Moriarty and the Holmes boys.  He explained the whole plan to me.  It made me see the last two years from a new perspective.  Perhaps the reason you didn’t want to see me is because you didn’t want to lie to me over and over.”

Mycroft looked down.  “I’m sorry for deceiving you.  You are right that I didn’t want to keep lying to you.  Our plan was foolproof for defeating Moriarty, but it did have collateral damage.  From what I hear, Doctor Watson didn’t take the news of Sherlock being alive very well. He was extremely angry, and their confrontation wasn’t pretty.  I understand if you want to go off on me, too.  I have it coming.”

Greg snarled, “I’ll say you have it coming.”  He strode over to Mycroft, put his hands on either side of his head, and pulled him in for a kiss filled with turbulent emotion.  When he finally pulled away, his eyes were blazing. “I’ve waited far too long for that.”

Mycroft blinked.  “You’re not angry with me?”

“Of course not!  Your brother was in danger, you did what you had to do.  I’m just relieved that you don’t hate me. ”  

Mycroft straightened up away from the desk and this time he pulled Greg in for a kiss.  All his lectures to himself about caring melted away.  He broke off the kiss and regarded Greg.  “Can we even pick up where we left off?  It’s been so long.”

“Of course we’re going to bloody well pick up where we bloody well left off. Starting with us going away for the weekend.  I let you freeze me out once, it’s not happening again, Sunshine.”

Mycroft smiled.  “I do adore how eloquent you are.”

Greg grinned.  “Bite me.”

“Oh, I will. Now, are you sure you have time to go away this weekend?  You have that Waters gang case that’s been keeping you busy.”

“I don’t think they’re going to rob a bank this weekend.  God help me if they rob a bank this weekend.  What about you?  Anything of national security going on that would prevent you from getting away?”

Mycroft thought of the terrorist plot that was currently threatening the safety of London.  “Yes, actually, but fortunately for me, my little brother has everything in hand at the moment.”

“Ah, Sherlock.  I suppose that means he can’t help me with the Waters gang.”

“Oh he probably could do both quite easily and still have time to plan Doctor Watson’s wedding.”

Greg gave him a startled look.  “John’s getting married?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I’m a little hurt he hasn’t said anything to me.” Greg did seem piqued.

Mycroft smiled.  “It only just happened.”

“Oh, oh right.  I forgot you always seem to know everything before anyone else.”

“A perk of my job.”

“Well, if he invites us to the wedding, we should go together.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose.  “No, sorry, I don’t do weddings.”

Greg’s eyebrows went skyward.  “Really? Well, let me put it to you this way. You and your brother Sherlock fucked with his head for two years by making him think Sherlock was dead.  He found someone who helped him through his pain and now he’s marrying her.  You owe it to him to go to his wedding and celebrate it.”

Mycroft stared at him in amazement.  “You’re so forceful.  Fine, I’ll consider it.”

Greg chuckled.  “How about we concentrate on the present and making plans for the weekend.”

A week later, Mycroft was at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock, playing Operation. They were discussing the terrorist plot, and the discussion eventually led to friendships and their difficulties making them as children.  Mycroft made a quip about living in a world of goldfish.  Sherlock asked him if he’d found a goldfish of his own.  Not wanting to equate Greg with a goldfish, he told Sherlock to change the subject.  They played another game where they tried to psychoanalyze a client just by his hat.  Sherlock concluded the owner of the hat was isolated, but Mycroft couldn’t see it.  Mycroft realized from the direction the conversation was taking, and piggybacking off their previous discussion, that Sherlock believed he was isolated.  “I’m not lonely, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked intently at him.  “How would you know?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.  “Well, you could ask your friend Greg his opinion.”

Sherlock frowned at him.  “Greg? I don’t know a Greg.  Even if I did, why would a friend of mine know whether you’re lonely?”

Mycroft smiled.  “Penny in the air,” he murmured, as he watched Sherlock work it out in his mind palace. Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth opened into an O shape.  “Penny drops.”

Sherlock glared.  “Are you dating Lestrade!?”

Mycroft chuckled.  “Yes, I am. And I would recommend dong a better job of getting his name right.  If everything goes well, he may become your brother-in-law some day.”


End file.
